Caught in a Cornish Scandal

by Eleanor Webster

  Millie stopped kissing him and Sam dazedly straightened from the wall.

  ‘Off with you!’ Doris gave another flap of her apron. The hens which had approached, hoping for scraps, scuttled away, while the cockerel darted towards her apron.

  On any normal day, Sam would find the landlady funny, he thought, with that detached part of his brain. Indeed, this whole scene, complete with donkey and rooster, had an element of humour.

  But this was not a normal day.

  ‘We’ll go,’ Millie said, taking his hand and Sam found himself following her because compliance was easier than resistance. They walked to the front of the inn, skirting the chickens and donkey who stared at them with unwarranted malevolence.

  ‘What was that kiss about?’ he asked at last as they reached the road, just in front of the inn’s bay window.

  ‘It seemed the only way to shut you up before you confessed to something you cannot even remember,’ Millie said.

  ‘I was not confessing, but you must concur that it cannot be coincidence.’

  She shrugged. ‘Maybe, but that does not mean you had any responsibility. Surely it is more likely that you both met with an accident. Besides, those two were looking for a good gossip. I know their type. Doris would dine out on the tale for a month of Sundays. You’d have accosted him with the Spanish Armada by the time she’d finished. Besides, we do not want them calling in the constabulary. The most important thing right now is that you get back to Manton Hall and talk to your sister.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. Indeed, his first priority must be to make some sense of this situation. Poor Frances must be out of her mind with worry. He certainly could not risk delay with unnecessary interrogation. ‘That is true. Thank you.’

  ‘Do not mention it. I seem in the business of saving you.’

  * * *

  Millie saw it first. The vehicle appeared little more than a small dot, visible on the road some distance away.

  ‘That must be the carriage the landlord mentioned,’ she said.

  They watched as it grew in size, meandering through the fields. Sam paced beside the inn’s stone exterior as though this would accelerate its progress. Millie sat on the inn’s cobbled path, leaning against the wall. Her feet hurt too much to bear her weight for any longer than was strictly necessary. Besides, she looked sufficiently like an urchin to sit like one.

  The vehicle was, Millie realised, a mail carrier which meant she was likely to know the driver and while this would guarantee them a ride, it might well end any last vestiges of her reputation.

  Of course, given her prolonged absence, it was entirely possible her reputation was already in tatters and the option of marriage to Mr Edmunds gone with it.

  ‘Millie,’ Sam said. ‘Who knows about you meeting The Rising Dawn? Anyone in the village?’

  ‘Just Sally.’

  ‘Do not say anything.’

  ‘Because of my reputation? It seems cowardly,’ she said. ‘Besides, the damage is likely irreparable.’

  He shook his head. ‘It’s not just about your reputation. Right now, the wreckers do not know anyone witnessed what happened at the beach. But if they know we were there and survived, they will worry that we know their identity.’

  ‘I did not see anything except the movement of the light up the path.’

  ‘But they do not know that. If they do, they may try to silence us.’

  Millie nodded. There had been a ruthlessness in the men’s execution. She had no doubt that the shooter would take any steps necessary for self-preservation. ‘I won’t say anything. But we must stop them and get Jem justice.’

  ‘We will.’

  The clip-clop of hooves heralded the coach’s arrival as it turned around the corner and, with a rattle of wheels, pulled to an abrupt stop. It was Dobbs. Millie knew him quite well and pulled her cap lower.

  ‘You two had best not be up to no good. I’m not having any trouble. I have my blunderbuss and will make good use of it,’ Dobbs announced to them, brandishing the weapon.

  ‘We require a ride,’ Sam said.

  ‘No doubt. And what will you pay me with?’

  Sam produced another gold guinea. ‘I am staying at Fowey. You go that way?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Dobbs’s gaze shifted, moving to Millie. His eyebrows pulled together as though knowing he should recognise her, but not yet finding the name. She looked down, hoping her cap might further obfuscate her identify.

  ‘Good Lord! Miss Lansdowne? What are you doing? And in that there customary?’

  She sighed. ‘You mean costume. It is a long story, Dobbs. Please, can you give us a ride?’

  ‘I can hardly leave you, now can I? But good gracious, what would your mother say? Or your father, God rest ’is soul? And poor Master Tom?’

  She did not say that if her father had not been drawn to disastrous financial investments or if Tom had not given promissory notes to despicable individuals, she might not have ended up on a smuggling mission disguised as a street urchin.

  ‘Perhaps we might spare my mother’s feelings by not—um—mentioning this,’ she said. Dobbs was generally a decent type and everyone knew that her mother suffered greatly from nerves.

  ‘Thankfully, we have no passengers, otherwise I do not know what they would say. Or what tale you could possible devise to explain your current situation.’

  ‘I would ride outside with you and chat like in the old days,’ Millie said. She had fond memories of childhood rides and had found him a source of useful information, a window into the lives of people living outside her small village.

  ‘Hmph, you’re a tad too old for such foolishness. You’re a lady, in case you have forgotten. I do not know what your mother would say.’ Dobbs gave a sorrowful shake of his head.

  ‘She would be struck dumb which, if you know my mother, is not necessarily a bad thing.’

  ‘The cheek of you,’ Dobbs said, in a tone which tried to sound condemning but, instead, was laced with respect. ‘Well, I’ll have to change the horses, but we’ll be off soon enough.’

  * * *

  Although warmer, the interior was less pleasant than the air outside and Millie rather wished she was perched on the driver’s box with Dobbs. Inside it smelled musty, the atmosphere laced with the memory of a dozen journeys, of bodies crammed too close and sodden footwear.

  Moreover, her travelling companion seemed particularly morose. Sam sat opposite her, hunched, his forehead pulled into a frown as he massaged his temples as though this might help him to better remember or make sense of events. His distress was palpable.

  ‘I am certain you will remember soon.’

  ‘I wish I shared your certainty,’ he muttered. ‘It is as though a whole piece of my life is missing.’

  ‘Your mind may be clearer after you have rest.’

  ‘I cannot rest until I see Frances.’

  He turned away from her and seemed uninterested in further conversation so she fell silent, watching the scenery pass. There was an oddness about the journey. When one was in danger, the future did not matter. One lived in that moment, determined to survive from second to second. Now her future crowded in on her. She feared both what she must do and also that her impulsive rashness might have made that duty impossible.

  While Millie was hardly thrilled with the idea of marriage to Mr Edmunds, she’d recognised its merits, even before Harwood had made his odious proposition. Her mother and Lil would be allowed to remain in their current house. She could stay in Cornwall and gain some financial stability.

  Harwood’s unwanted advances only made marriage to Mr. Edmunds the more necessary. And yet, she appreciated a heavy, hopelessness which weighted her shoulders and tightened her abdomen.

  The thought of this loveless marriage felt all the more abhorrent.

  She glanced towards Sam. She had ne
ver considered that she might have an interest in a more passionate relationship. Indeed, even the thought made the heat rush into her cheeks. And, obviously, they had no future. He was a fashionable gentleman who lived in London. She was an unfashionable, poverty-stricken woman who lived in Cornwall.

  But she had felt things she had not thought possible. Lillian might believe in love and happy endings but, for Millie, such things belonged in the foolish novels her sister so frequently enjoyed. However, for a brief, wonderful moment, she had felt something. And while she obviously did not believe in romantic notions, it had made her wonder whether she might be missing something if she married Mr Edmunds, for whom she could not summon even the smallest particle of desire.

  She pushed the thought away. Mr Edmunds was middle-aged and already had five children and she sincerely hoped had no great desire to add to his family.

  Moreover, she realised her feelings towards Sam were likely heightened by the danger they had experienced, the close confines or a myriad of other reasons, none of which impacted the present.

  Laying her head against the glass, she looked at the passing scenery. One could not see the cliffs or ocean and it had none of the desolate windblown danger of the moors, nor the more picturesque beauty of the cottages closer to home.

  However, as they progressed the land started to gain familiarity. The road became narrower, branches and leaves sometimes brushing against the window.

  She’d be back with her family soon. She wondered if the memory of this experience would even seem real. She wondered if it would be better if it lost the sharp edge of reality, more closely resembling a dream.

  Gradually, the carriage started to slow. She straightened, looking at Sam. His worry was evident in the tense lines of his body, but so was his isolation. He seemed to have aged within the last hour. Waiting was always the most difficult. She remembered that well enough with Tom. One’s mind always went to the worst-case scenario.

  Doubtless Sam was experiencing that now; lurching between worry that his sister had hurt Ludlow and fear that he, himself, had done so.

  ‘Sam,’ she said softly.

  He turned.

  ‘I spent rather a lot of time with Tom, and even my father, when they were in their cups. I found that their essential character did not change. I do not know what happened to you, but I do not think either you or your sister would have done anything out of character or wrong.’

  ‘You have known me for less than forty-eight hours.’

  ‘During which time we have experienced more than people endured in lifetime. Though you have been irritating at times, you have always been decent.’

  ‘High praise,’ he said, his sober expression lightening just slightly with a tiny lopsided smile.

  ‘Likely we won’t see each other much after this so I just wanted you to know that.’

  ‘Thank you. And, Millie?’

  She nodded as the vehicle pulled to a stop.

  ‘Find out how much Harwood is owed. I have a solicitor and money. No woman should marry Harwood.’

  Again she felt that mix of emotion—a flash of angered pride because they were no charity case, but also gratitude. For the first time in for ever, she did not feel entirely alone. ‘Thank you.’

  The vehicle shook with Dobbs’s movements as he clambered down. He pulled open the door and cool air whistled inside.

  ‘I anticipate that you’d prefer to go in sotto voce, so to speak,’ he said, thrusting his head inside, his face reddened from the wind.

  Millie blinked in the dim, momentarily disoriented, before realising his meaning. As always, he had an interesting way with words.

  ‘Er...yes, thank you.’

  ‘Right, well, we’re just down the drive. You walk up and I’ll take this gentleman home and you...’ Dobbs fixed Sam with a glare ‘...Miss Lansdowne is one of ours and I do not want no gossip flying about.’

  ‘Mr Dobbs, I owe Miss Lansdowne my life.’

  ‘Hmph,’ Dobbs said, as though finding this statement dubious.

  Millie shifted forward, pulling her tattered clothes more closely about her as she slid across the seat towards the door. She glanced at Sam. His dark hair fell across his forehead and his eyes were shadowed with fatigue and worry. He was a young man and yet he looked oddly old and she knew a desire to run her fingertips across his hair and push the heavy locks back.

  Swallowing, she pulled her gaze away. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘You, too.’

  Chapter Seven

  The final moments walking up the familiar path home seemed odd, painful, exhausting. How many times had she walked this same path? How many times had she walked from the village and heard the rustling branches and, in the distance, the waves crashing? And there was that wonderful mix of smells that seemed the essence of home: fresh mint from the kitchen garden, peat and that essential ocean scent of salt and fish and seaweed.

  And here she was again, but she was not remotely the same person. Indeed, it was oddly disconcerting that the brick house, overgrown rockery and untended lawn should be so unchanged. How could everything be the same while her world had been tossed and shaken like a baby’s rattle?

  Afternoon was drawing to a close and the light dimming. She stepped on the paving stones, now overgrown with weeds. She went to the conservatory, which jutted from the solid brick façade like an afterthought of glass. She touched the door handle and it twisted easily.

  She was home.

  With an exhalation of relief, she slipped into the damp, earthy air, which even in this season was heavy with fragrance. They always called it her mother’s conservatory although really her mother had spent little time in it. Flora and Lil were responsible for the plants that still occupied almost every ledge.

  Much of the furniture in the rest of the house had been stripped and sold, but no one had wanted either the plants or the shabby rattan chairs so the conservatory looked as it always had. The tiles felt smooth to her feet. The long lacey fronds of an overgrown fern tickled her arms as she passed through, entering the main body of the house.

  As always, the hall felt cold, dry and lifeless after the conservatory’s air. Millie had no clear plan and her stealthy entry was motivated by the instinct of an injured animal seeking its lair. She wanted only to find her bedroom and rest.

  Of course, this was not sensible. One doesn’t disappear for days without disturbing one’s family and within seconds of her entry into the hall, the parlour door was flung open.

  Her mother appeared immediately, a lamp held high, the beams flickering on her face, haggard and creased with worry.

  ‘Millie, oh, thank goodness. I thought you were dead. Indeed, I did not know what to do. Sometimes, I think this family is cursed, although Flora tells me this is not possible.’

  Her words summoned Lil, who flew down the stairs, several paper curlers falling from her hair like leaves in autumn. She engulfed Millie in a tight, orange-blossom-scented hug.

  ‘Mils, I am so thankful. So very thankful,’ she said, her tones interrupted by hiccupped sobs. ‘I was—so—so worried. Flora was ever so strong and said how you had a good head on your shoulders and would be back right as rain. Except I remembered how awful it was when Tom died and I feared the worse. Good heavens, you smell!’

  This last sentence was uttered with a hiccupped sob, which morphed into a hysterical giggle.

  Just then Flora came from the kitchen, bustling forward while simultaneous drying her hands with her apron. As always, Flora brought with her that calm competency and the innate feeling that everything would be well which had always made her the backbone of the Lansdowne family.

  ‘There you are, miss. We were that worried. Now, Mrs Lansdowne, you get some rest. A little lie down and then I’ll bring up a light supper for you in your room. I will prepare Miss Millicent a bath. That’ll have you feeling better in no time. And
I have some soup heating in the kitchen that will go down a treat.’

  ‘I am sorry you were worried. I am quite unharmed,’ Millie said.

  ‘But whatever made you take your boat out on such a dreadful night?’ her mother asked, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘It was not sensible and you are usually sensible.’

  ‘I know and I am sorry. I never expected the...the weather to get bad. I thought I might catch fish for supper.’

  ‘Truly, miss, you did not need to go to such extremes,’ Flora said in her firm, bracing tones. ‘Now, up you get and into the bath.’

  ‘I am sorry I caused you all so much worry.’ Millie rubbed a hand across her eyes, conscious of the tears welling up and trickling down her cheeks.

  Her mother stepped forward. ‘There, there. Fortunately, I had the forethought to tell Mr Edmunds that you were dangerous ill, which has likely only served to increase your value to him. One always values that which one might lose.’

  ‘Um... Thank you... I think,’ Millie said.

  ‘Excellent forethought, Mrs Lansdowne. But time enough for that in the morning. Right now, Miss Millicent is dead on her feet. She will be much more coherent after a bath, supper and a goodnight’s sleep and that you may tie to. Up you go and I will bring hot water.’

  Flora said these last words to Millie and it took every last ounce of remaining energy to follow these directions. Indeed, her every step felt weighted and each movement Herculean in nature.

  Like everything about her home, her bedchamber also seemed unchanged to a disconcerting degree. Her bed and night table were still as they had been throughout her childhood and the room was warm and pleasantly lit by the amber glow of the fire. She stepped to it, crouching down and leaning into its warmth. It was extravagant to light a fire. Her mother must have ordered it. She found that touching.